Devil in the Details
by The Huntress1
Summary: NF-verse. You think you know a guy...She'd grown tired of the static quality of their relationship. Then, perhaps too quickly, Selina is reminded that the status quo often has its perks. So goes the patter of little foreign feet...


**Disclaimer: NF-verse and quite proud as the current DCnU is, to put it lightly, an abomination. That said, I took a few liberties with more than a few characters, a fleeting cameo is made by a certain hard-boiled thief, for which I will always have Mr. Darwyn Cooke by way of "Selina's Big Score," to thank. I love 20th century Society and the stories that seldom made it into the columns and I hope that's evident here. My Damian is based rather vaguely on the late Alexander Onassis. I don't pretend to know of him in any true sense, but what little of his isolation always seemed evident colors my story.**

**May, 1960**

If she'd been asked, by anyone really, she would have admitted to not knowing him as well as she thought she did. She knew his morning routine, his favorite newspapers, the white china with the blood red rim and monogrammed W. The great bay windows letting light into his father's study. Always toast and ham and homemade jam. Poached eggs and black coffee.

The tall, silent haunting house with the great sloping lawns and just him in that place with Alfred to keep him company, butler, valet, driver and chef all in one. And later that ward, Dickey, was there too which took some getting used to but not too much. That was how it always looked and she took it for granted that this place was unchanging but for a few small details.

It was Alfred who now sought to calm her with a well-timed cup of tea. She usually disliked Earl Grey, finding the soft, silky sensation and muted flavors annoying rather than soothing. But right now, anything she might have asked for would have tasted like so much liquid charcoal for all intents and purposes. So she sat, wooden as a fence post, and nursed the cup.

If she'd been asked, she wouldn't have guessed for one moment that Bruce, _her _Bruce, twenty-one years old or forty, could be so...spiteful.

So, he had been sore at her while she was away. The first time, the time after that and the last. She could forgive this most recent round. After all, he'd declined to argue when she struck out with Wildcat, and it had been...foolish...on her part, to imagine he'd been alone all that long while. She knew better but denial was easier. And she wasn't, by any stretch, innocent herself.

There was a woman, one she'd never known about, and they had quite a history. The first time, when they were all really just kids.

-#-

Bruce read of her impending nuptials in the _International Times Herald _at the French Embassy at Algiers before departing for Istanbul. The summer of forty-one.

He'd believed that she would wait for him, when she didn't, he sought solace in the arms of a young Persian girl. Her family, from Tehran, was on holiday. She was sixteen at the time, extraordinarily wealthy (her father's net worth at that point even dwarfed the Waynes) but puzzlingly defiant sometimes, diffident others and spoiled rotten always. He'd ignored his better judgment, about her, about his as yet undefined mission. He momentarily put off his travels and married her in fit of forlorn drunkenness.

The union didn't last but three months before he tried to have it annulled. Her father was furious but wishing to avoid a scandal they declined to drag the courts into their little ruckus, managing a quick, mostly silent divorce. Bruce was permitted to leave but they were of Chalcedonian Orthodox stock and thus, the dissolution of their vows wasn't recognized by her church. An annulment wouldn't have been possible anyhow by that point for she was already with child.

She was later connected with the likes of Stavros Niarchos and Porfirio "Rubi" Rubirosa and he kept what little tabs he could on the boy.

A son had been born in forty-two. Bruce had become trapped in the Chinese highlands for several years and only managed to hear about the birth through the kind, cryptic correspondence of his friend Oliver. Ollie had a bit of an illegitimate pickle on his hands having abandoned a child of his own at an ashram, then-recently founded by Swami Sivananda on the banks of the Ganges River. Oliver had volunteered for service in the British Army in an effort to distance himself as quickly as possible. Bruce, in turn, had been pursued by the Japanese.

He'd attempted to retain neutrality but upon hearing firsthand the lingering horrors of Nanking and the current, brutal actions throughout the Chinese Republic he found that position was a bit hard to hold. Though he refused to fire a weapon in combat or otherwise, he willfully smuggled goods, munnitions and people in and out of far flung locales such as West Hubei and Changde when combat got underway, isolating the civlian population. The last year was particularly hairy, forcing him to cross over into Taiwan. He was tired of war and wanted very much to get on with his travels. He did not appreciate his exploits being written up and championed by _Life_ and _Look _magazines, by the Gotham Gazette and the Times. He had seen his duty, such as it was, and done it. That was all.

He arrived home in forty-five and Selina had been there but it was awkward. They had one strange conversation in the pantry of Stanley Vreeland's kitchen once. It could have turned into sex too but she was uncharacteristically drunk and he simply escorted her to his car and instructed Alfred to take her to her parents' house. That was all there was for a long time.

There were too many parties and lots of fellows stroking about in their uniforms. A few of the less enlightened ones got hot, trying to take a poke at him about his lack of service. Mr. _4-F_ was it? Someone would always grab them by the collar and make them wise and they'd turn beet red and back off, muttering something that may have been sorry.

Yes, he was an only child, the last son of an old family. The military wouldn't have permitted him to serve in any active sense anyhow and rather than get roped up in any war bond rallies he'd chosen to be independent, to stick to the shadows. He'd seen death and destruction on a vast, unintelligible scale. The last thing that could possible ruffle his feathers was some poor furloughed pilot, tight and hostile and itching for a fight.

But the shy, quiet routine had to end. He studied the other boys' habits and mimicked them with gusto. Nights up and down the coast became just common enough to be noticed. And quietly, the stories began to tell themselves, whispered over bridge party tables and in washrooms alike.

By then Selina had climbed out of her own rut and and was disheartened to see him fall into his. They had lunch at Millie Barton's one afternoon and their romance sort of picked back up where it had left off. She spoke of Don in passing and he never mentioned the girl, whoever she was.

He was just as loving and thoughtful as she remembered but for that damned nightlife. And she was discovering a niche all her own, spending half of fifty-one in Paris. One month into her stay, she began a fling with an swarthy, impoverished Polish prince named Stas, called "Stark" by his associates. He gave her his devotion and his time, introducing her to the idea that _other _truths were possible. To support himself he dealt in stolen art and jewelry. Europe was all but ransacked through the war and for a long time afterward too. Few but the most dedicated really bothered to verify where or to whom a painting had belonged. Through him Selina discovered a taste for rare jewels and after Stark, a neat pin or ring at Christmas or on her birthday would no longer do.

In September she returned to Bruce and, over the years, alternately built up her career as a thief, much to the Bat Man's chagrin. She could not, however, take being an afterthought and stopped accepting Bruce's calls or his cards and letters.

He became unusually desperate, well aware of her affair, and told her the truth about his nights. It won her respect but it did not win her back. She loved him and admitted as much but she'd needed and wanted other things.

By way of parting she put her well-honed skills to work and managed to make off with Lex Luthor's funny green rock. The idea of breaking into and out of Luthor's steel cage of a building was pretty exciting in and of itself and while she felt slightly underwhelmed by the little glowing sliver she could still show Bruce that she cared. But, more importantly, their city needed him. That was something those spooks and red-baiters-apart from Miss Waller-couldn't see.

An open gesture of amends as it were.

This time she'd stayed away and he found her and brought her back and for more than a year and a half they drifted. The definition of their relationship escaped them so they didn't have one. They were simply spoken for. There had been some strain when she'd compulsively raided Betsy's safe and later when Bruce discovered Grant had been sending her presents on a monthly basis in an attempt to win her back. Oliver Queen had absconded with Dinah Lance and the old prizefighter had thus telephoned more than a few times.

The gifts were outlandish, extravagant and unmistakably noveau riche. The biggest and brightest token of Wildcat's misplaced affections had been to fill her living room with hundreds of roses. At that, Bruce had lost his temper, and she hadn't guessed or asked what he'd done about it but the presents stopped.

-#-

Now, a little over a month ago, Selina had handed Bruce a little silver christening cup, explaining that it was given to her as a baby. He'd stared at it, dumbfounded and then at her. She'd nodded and he'd given a start, face reddened. He'd discarded his newspaper and brought a hand to his forehead. Surely he couldn't have been that surprised. They'd made love routinely and he was all too aware that their use of contraceptives hadn't been nearly as often as required for its intended purpose.

But he'd swallowed thickly and asked how long.

She'd shrugged, unsure and he'd done something peculiar. He'd gotten up, excused himself and went down to the cave.

She was not permitted to follow him there. At least, until she could reasonably swear that her criminal days were firmly behind her. Every now and then she succumbed to the urge and though he always forgave her, she knew his inability to completely reform her nettled him. True, it was also a reminder of that man in Paris. And that Bruce wasn't capable of satisfying all of her needs. The Twentieth Century S.O.B. in him.

She couldn't quite blame him for his anger in that sense but his reaction to her pregnancy had been wholly unexpected. For all of his flaws, Bruce was very much a traditional male. He fully expected to settle down at some point, he just couldn't say when. She'd reminded him, in Monaco, that she couldn't exactly wait around forever and he'd promised she wouldn't. But it had been about two years and he'd been to his jeweler several times on her behalf but never for the much anticipated reason.

This morning, he'd telephoned her and requested that she be dressed by nine, he was sending Alfred to pick her up. She came as called and was a bit bristled to find him having his breakfast at a small table in the study. He hadn't waited for her and there was another place setting of half-eaten food. She guessed Dickey might have sat with him but by that time of morning he would have already been in class at Rutgers Prep in Somerset, almost an hour's drive south and thirty minutes by rail.

He apologized for not waiting and had Alfred bring in what she usually ordered over luncheon at Longchamp's, scrambled eggs with chopped ham and sliced mushrooms. The place opposite him was cleared, her meal arrived and she, though put off and thoroughly irritated, sat down.

He stared at her silently while she absently picked over the food, mostly pushing bits back and forth with the fork. He poured her coffee himself and quietly stirred two sugar cubes into the black liquid before adding a healthy serving of cream. He offered this and she took it, brow knit, and drained it unceremoniously.

His face was set in a way she didn't recognize and she didn't enjoy it. Finally, she decided to just speak frankly, "I hope you're not going to ask me to give it up or...to get rid of it."

His eyes looked pained and his brow furrowed deeply, "Not at all."

"Are you sending me away?"

He dabbed at his mouth with the napkin and couldn't look her in the face, "No, I...I'm going to ask you to marry me."

She sat up straighter, a unique feat given the strict tutelage of her time at Foxcroft but there it was and she was...relieved, "You...I hate to admit it but you frightened me Brucie. You really did."

"Not without cause," his voice was very dry.

"So, when are you _going _to ask me?"

He blinked and sighed, "After I've told you about my past. If you are still willing, then I shall go see your father."

"Oh, he'll be pleased I suppose, but he gave up on me long ago. Karl too for that matter. His children are bohemians, he reminds us with great solemnity every holiday."

Bruce smirked, weakly for him, "I do suppose your keeping up acquaintances with Baroness de Koenigswarter is some cause for Mr. Bartholomew Kyle's blood pressure being in such a harried state."

"Yes, and all of those _common_ negroes she entertains too...Daddy's an old bore and I do think I love him. But I tried to do those good little girl things and they did not turn out very well."

He didn't respond and she didn't waste time with too much silence, "So, you must tell me now of those silly little ignorant experiences in China. And all of the secretaries and waitresses and cigarette girls since, right?"

His face darkened considerably, "I don't...indulge, if you'll forgive the expression, in the private company of young ladies nearly as often as you think. And I've never gone to bed with any woman I've known while we were...together. I do want that established."

She felt some guilt and her ears reddened, "I was a lot more serious about you than you seemed to be about me. I did not think you cared. I've not said a word to him since."

"We've discussed that," he answered with more than a little bite. His anger was hard to laugh at, it always made a little coil in her stomach though she was loathe to admit it. She didn't want to admit that he was capable of doing what she damn sure knew he _was_. She'd seen him fight, she knew he would never behave in any way violent towards her but she didn't tease him. Not about matters of...inadequacy, perceived or otherwise. And she knew having this sort of discussion was akin to pulling teeth for him, he never talked about sex. So this had to be..._unusually _important to warrant calling it to her...attention.

"You did not write me," he continued drily, "to say you were engaged, let alone married."

She lowered her head somewhat, "I thought you had forgotten me. Two years and no word."

He nodded, "That was unintentional. The length of time required to post letters in that part of the world in those days was prohibitively long, they delivered once a week in the populous areas and where I'd gone, cholera followed. The letter carriers were cowards, and I didn't see more than a handful of newspapers in two years..." he stopped and looked up, "But these are all excuses. It's true, I did not write or possibly, rarely, telephone though knowing your father he would not have accepted the call at that hour. The time difference..."

She nodded.

"I apologize. But, I was...upset. And I sought...comfort, with a young girl. I've long since come to regret it, however."

"Surely a little thing like that, and so long ago, darling, you're not torturing yourself over that now are you? You were just a boy," she patted his cheek.

He finally looked her head on, "I did marry her, briefly."

This time she straightened tightly and let the thought sink in. He'd been married, _briefly_. But she'd never hidden her past. Her ex-husband was currently on his fourth wife and sixth child but there was never any mystery to it.

She let the thought roll around and put her fork down altogether, "Just how long is _briefly_?"

"Three months," he answered plainly.

She took and let out a breath. That wasn't too bad. He had been trying to pick himself up after all. He'd been a boy and was hurt and got a little mixed up. She nodded to herself but spoke aloud, "You had me worried. That's not too bad at all. But, I never saw anything in the newspapers."

"My name doesn't have quite the same weight in Asia or North Africa. I was just a little brat taking a detour on the Grand Tour."

She sighed, "Well, darling. You've gotten that off your chest. All things considered, I couldn't dare hold it against you. After all, I've...misbehaved myself."

He grimaced, "That...is not all there is to tell."

She had begun to eat again and sighed, "I hope you'll not tell me that you kissed Sally at the soda fountain when you were thirteen and are hoping I won't be sore. Brucie, I get it. You made a mistake."

Bruce frowned again, "If you will please stop interrupting. I...there was...a child."

-#-

She did not remember her exact reaction now, staring at the sparse bits of tea leaf wet and mushy at the bottom of the cup. He'd explained methodically. The boy's name, Damian, and where he had been-boarding school since the age of seven apparently. That struck her as unconscionably too young but he'd nodded sadly. He'd had no say in the boy's upbringing, had never really been privy to his whereabouts. As recently as three years ago, he'd asked a personal favor of Superman, that he might find the boy and report on his...condition.

It was done. Thus, he'd learned that since the age of ten Damian had remained at Harrow School with only a yearly holiday to see his mother, Christmas at St. Moritz. And the boy, according to Bruce, was obedient but also, for lack of a better term, brutal in the natural manner of a prep schoolboy.

Bruce had spent the better part of a year in tense correspondence with the boy's grandfather, sometimes visiting in person. Finally, as of January, he'd persuaded the older man to let Damian come to Gotham City once he was graduated at Harrow. Bruce arranged everything and the young man, now a startlingly well-built eighteen, had arrived on the S.S. Trafalgar at New York Harbor as of Friday evening. Bruce had arranged for him to take a year of post-graduate study at Andover but he would spend the summer at the manor.

And, the other matter was, he could never be sure that the divorce stood. Legally he was on solid ground but...he could not be married by any clergymen. His mother would have been disappointed to say the least.

He knew Selina didn't care whether they were married in a church but her family certainly did, or more to the point, her father did. Any denomination would do. Mr. Kyle was tall, slender and stern with a curling mustache that he kept waxed in a manner that always put to mind Salvador Dali. Once, in the dear dim past, he'd refused his sister Tabitha admittance to his house after she had gone to New York and bobbed her hair.

The bohemian quality in the children came directly from his wife, Medora Kane Wells, and as their own marriage had progressed, Bart had become displeased by her and with divorce out of the question, instead chose to ignore her presence altogether. Bruce had spent more than one evening as dinner passed without their exchanging a single word. They spoke through and around one another, addressing the children or the servants: _Mr. Kyle will have his bath after dinner Miller_. Or, _Mrs. Kyle is not permitted another serving of ice cream. I'll not send her back to Paris for another fitting before the year is through._

Unpleasant did not begin to describe it but neither Karl or Selina batted an eyelash. That said, Bruce knew Selina had been wary of marriage, particularly after the small-scale disaster that was her first trip to the altar.

Her first and last choice had always been Bruce and he felt the same way. They had much in common from the first: their mothers were both Kanes, thus they were sixth cousins, not that that was particularly consequential. Their schooling, habits...missteps, all the same.

Now she blinked at him as though he was a stranger, "How long has he been here in Gotham?"

"He arrived yesterday afternoon."

"And when were you going to tell me?"

"I was planning to regardless. I've been working steadily to bring him here for some time now, I hope you'll realize, this has been...difficult. If I couldn't find him...Let us just say I wanted to wait until I knew for certain."

"Knew what for certain?"

"His...mother. She's...he reminded her too much of me, so she essentially banished him. He said he received presents at Easter...they're of the Eastern church so they rely upon the Lunar calendar. Christmas for him was in January, that's when she sent for him. But at Harrow, he was...his moniker essentially became," he winced, "the Persian Bastard. His temperament is indeed...what might be described as coarse. I wasn't sure what I was getting you into..." Bruce reached into his breast-pocket, "I absconded with this photograph when I was last at his grandfather's house. He's very young here, riding in some sort of toy automobile."

He handed it to her and she stared at it, spotting Bruce's jaw and eyes immediately, "Is he upstairs?"

"Yes. I felt it would be inappropriate to put him in the old nursery. He's next to Dick," Bruce summoned Alfred but stopped before requesting that the boy be sent down, "Would you care to meet him?"

She froze, more than disturbed and grasped his hand, "I...will you please give me a moment?"

He nodded, understanding and she rose, wandering out of doors and onto the terrace. There Alfred had found her, providing her with the cup of tea. Eyebrows sharp, she turned to him, "What is the boy like, I mean, is he at least amiable?"

"If I may be perfectly honest miss, no, I would not say that the boy is amiable. But he is very much Master Bruce's son if appearances are to be judged. Considering his circumstances, however, I imagine he will require a good deal of patience if not humor."

Selina shook her head, feeling hollowed and dull. She set her hand on her stomach and pursed her lips. If she'd felt particularly pressed, she might pull a fast one and disappear overseas for a while. Bruce would know the difference but she hadn't shared the "good" news with anyone else yet. Or she could go to Puerto Rico...

Then she shook her head, no. She'd known more than her share of jet setting girls in Monaco and elsewhere, the sort whose husbands or boy-friends beat them whenever they got pregnant. Who sought the expertise of this or that doctor and spent months indoors recuperating. Only to repeat the experience in a year or two's time.

Bruce wasn't that sort of man and she guessed he'd make a good father...or wouldn't he? She'd never observed him with children other than with Dickey, and the boy was always _chum_, not a son but a ward. They were partners not family. And what of this boy, Damian? She guessed Bruce was probably disturbed, after all, men hated to see anything that reminded of them of their sins.

But he kept the boy's photograph with him. How often had they sat and talked and dined and danced with that little paper image between their breasts? She realized Alfred was still standing there and gave a hard sigh, "I'm stuck aren't I Alfred?"

"I beg your pardon miss?"

She shook her head and stood to go back in the house. In the doorway she started a cigarette. Wondering to herself, _stuck like a pig_.


End file.
